


.

by Anonymous



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk Sex, F/M, Friendship/Love, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 12:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15729375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: How sober are you?





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**Author's Note:**

> been in my notes folder for months  
> decided to "complete" it  
> vague characters but i thought of them when i wrote it

 

Raw, unbridled passion. 

It finds your lips after a drink too many. The taste of it is like yours, but also unlike yours, as you have settled for different poisons but are under the effect of the same spell. Are you confused? How sober are you?

You've thought of this before. You've pictured it in your head and imagined the feeling on your skin, though you've never believed it would actually happen.

Now, it's real. Lips are moving on yours, wet and eager. They are joined by something softer, something more sensational, and you know you are supposed to open your mouth. The taste of him is stronger, gives you a stronger feeling of desire.

You've been friends for ages, and know each other intimately. You could list all the ways he's a goof and all the ways he tries to hide it. You know how hard he tries to look perfect in front of everyone. You're fully aware that you are the only one with whom he'll let his guard down, that if it's you he doesn't need to force himself to be someone he’s not. You've always told him to loosen up—that he'll get an aneurism, a stroke, or a goddamn heart attack with how hard he's pushing himself.

(You've neglected to add the part about how devastated you'll be if he dies prematurely and leaves you behind, and how you hate the thought of growing old without him.)

You take pride in being independent and self-sufficient, but you've always clung to him, always seen him as a reference, as if part of you acknowledged that he may indeed be perfect, but recently...

Recently that feeling has changed, hasn't it? That's the reason your lips are moving on his, your tongue slipping into his mouth, your arms reaching around his neck to keep him closer than ever before. 

Maybe it wasn't admiration, but rather affection. Can you become close to someone by trying to be like them? Can you get closer by strife, acting like you can't stand the person? Waging wars, forging competitions for the sake of bickering or even just to feel—something more than the courtesy any other two average people could offer each other? Because what you have is something more—something you two have allowed yourselves because you know each other too well, a game you play because you know the other party is too attached to let this get in the way of your relationship. You know that you will return to him in the end, and that he will always come back to you.

How are you now? How close? How sober? Did he think your arms around him were a challenge? For now, he reaches for you, too. He touches your cheeks and though you knew his hands were going to be somewhat dry, you didn't expect them to feel this hot against your skin. One trails down your neck and keeps going. You don't know how far it will go but that only makes you more dizzy and breathless and excited.

Your breathing changes. How sober are you? How confused? How drunk do two friends have to be to touch each other like this, to have any reason to do so when they would earlier recoil from a simple brush of fingertips? Certainly not for the simple explanation of "I want to touch you." This, he does not say aloud, but you know he is trying to ask for your permission by the way his hands tentatively hover over your skin and clothes before they make contact.

But he doesn't even need to ask. He just needs to place his hands on you and you'll be on fire.

Have you always wanted this? It must be new. How new is it for him? Has he also wondered what it would be like to slip fingertips under loose cloth, to run a palm flat over the torso, to leave wet kisses into the sensitivity of the neck, hoping to hear the softest of moans in the process?

More is always what you want when you think of this. Your imagination is never enough. It was never real, but now the feeling of his skin on yours is vivid and invigorating, and that makes you confused.

How sober are you?

Are you friends? Are you more? Have you the capacity to care about your future when his hands have made their way under your shirt, fumbling with the clasp of your bra—when every brush of his thumbs over hypersensitive skin is jolting you back to the present?

You think he is challenging you now. In your need to prove you are equally capable of driving him mad, you let your hands stray down, until they meet the end of his crumpled shirt and find the belt they intend to unbuckle. He doesn’t stop you, and you think that means he wants this just as much as you do. But he’s not the perfect guy he pretends to be and you know he can’t always read your mind, so when you’re finished with his zipper you strip your tights and your top and your already unhooked bra, and you savor his dumbstruck expression when you meet his eyes again.

Suddenly, he’s too slow. He’s wasting time staring when he could be feeling and that is everything you want. You climb into his lap, and before he can spend too long hugging your body in another embrace you’re tugging at his shirt because you want it all off.

He senses your urgency but stops you to look directly in your eyes because he needs to ask, “Are you sure you want this?”

You’re not sober, but there is no way this is the only time you’ve wanted this.

You can’t tell him since when because you can’t even answer it for yourself. You can’t tell him why because you would never admit to having a list of reasons as long as it is.

But you can at least tell him, “I want this. I’m sure. Please.”

Your lips are on his before he can ask another question, and the next time you try he lets you pull his shirt over his head. He handles his pants himself, and the sight of how hard he is beneath his snug underwear brings your attention to just how wet you’ve gotten.

He looks at you like a goddess when you straddle him. He welcomes you like spring after a long winter, taking you in like parched soil soaks up rain. He pulls your hips closer to his, and you grind against his erection without meaning to. You find that you like it, too. You try it again and earn yourself a throaty moan from the man under you. You’ve known him for so long that you didn’t think any sound might surprise you, but this one is a hit of happy hormones in your head and a wave of hot arousal in your abdomen.

Your lips meet again as you grasp at the base of his skull, tangling fingers into his red hair. Your hands travel over his torso just as freely as his do over your chest, but you obviously don’t have as much to squeeze. He raises you to kneeling with your body pressed against his, he kisses and sucks—and when he makes a comment about how you actually have boobs you punch his back without the slightest hint of remorse.

You’re not sober and neither is he, but you’re grateful he has enough of a brain to put a condom on because you’ve previously told him how you decided to take a break from the pill after the messy breakup with your last boyfriend—when in your frustration you vowed that you would only date girls from that moment on, and that you could totally see yourself proposing to your mutual best-friend Sakura one day. He laughs as he reminds you of this, and just before you start to hate him for making you feel like a fool, he kisses you once more and says he is glad that you chose him instead.

It’s not your first time and it isn’t his either. You don’t regret your first because you wouldn’t be here otherwise, but you can’t help but feel a bit miffed at the fact he lost his virginity to a bitch who thought you weren’t worthy of being his friend. _He’s so perfect, he’s so talented_ … You wish she had a mind to cut him some slack because _you_ know how much effort it takes for him to fake it, and how much pressure those kinds of expectations place on him. You never said anything because you knew _somehow_ he was actually happy, but you still lent him your ear and your shoulder when he couldn’t open up to anyone else.

Is it wrong to be this possessive? Is it wrong to have been hiding that you might have liked him this whole time? No—you’ve said it before, this is new. You didn’t expect his mouth on your neck to be this warm, or the weight of his body to be this pleasant, much less his cock grinding slick against your sex to make you this goddamn excited.

He asks if he can put it in and you answer, “Yes, dear gods, _yes_.”

He dips his hips lower, shifts his weight to one hand so he can use the other to guide his length to your cunt, and when the tip is just barely in he crouches over you, close enough that you can feel his breath ghost over your cheek. You remember there’s a chance you’re both probably still drunk, but it feels different now. You wonder if he’s getting too emotional too soon, because when he sinks his cock into you he makes a sound like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. You wrap your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck, daring to pull him in deeper. You arch your back to feel more of him but it’s not enough, you need more, you need him to just—

“Hurry up and _move_ ,” you plead.

He does, and it sets your nerve endings alight. A whimper leaves your lips uncontrollably, and your eyes shut from the intensity of the pleasure. _Gods_ , it’s been so long.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Does it hurt?”

You smirk at him then. “What’s wrong Mr. Perfect? Need more directions? Because I thought you knew how to do a girl properly.”

“You’re not just any girl, Kazahana.” He punctuates the declaration by brushing aside the sweat-damp hair stuck to your forehead. He presses a kiss to your mouth, sans tongue, and the way he breathes you in and tangles his fingers in your hair makes your heart skip a beat.

Are you scared? Is this more than you can handle? Because your own feelings have suddenly grown heavy, and you know you’re already sobering up but you still want this. Pain has settled in your chest and your throat is tight and you feel like you’re about to cry, but you still want this. You move your kisses away from his lips, down his jaw and into the dip under his ear. “Shut up and just fuck me,” you whisper. He obliges.

He picks up the pace and you go from being able to feel everything torturously slow to being slammed where you feel like you shouldn’t but— _holy shit_ —you feel amazing, and you have to clamp your hand to your mouth or someone might hear you despite the music from the party and the way its bass is sending vibrations through the walls.

“No words?” He smirks. “Where are my directions?” You groan and cover his mouth instead because _like hell_ you’re going to let him talk to you like this, but he tilts his head slightly and takes two of your fingers in his mouth. His tongue weaves through them, slides easily against them, licks at the excess saliva before it gets too messy—and your heart beats too fast and your head is swimming in something unclear and you think you’re wetter than ever because, dear gods, he’s so damn _hot_ —

“Faster,” you tell him, “harder.” Every thrust makes you feel like you want to explode into yourself. Your hands abandon his back in favor of the sheets because you’re sure that if left as it were he would be bleeding by the end of the night. You’re gritting your teeth with your eyes shut tight but you would scream his name if you could; and he’s perfect, he’s perfect, he’s perfect…

…But part of you wishes he wasn’t because it only serves to remind you that he has done this before.

He warns you before he comes and you tell him you want it, too. He holds you close enough that your ear picks up every labored breath, each trace of that voice. His breathing slows and deepens, and he’s no longer slamming into you but he rides out what’s left of his high while you idly press kisses to the thin skin on his neck. You regret when he pulls away from you—you want to hold onto him longer, to keep him close, for him to be _yours_ …

What are you, drunk? You’ve never thought this before.

He cleans himself up and you follow suit, wordlessly. You’re both more or less sober by now and the tension is starting to thicken. Are you friends? Are you more? Do you want to be more?

Without warning, he tenderly draws you into his arms. Instinctively, your arms wrap around his lithe body just the same, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. There is a slight fragrance to him, and you close your eyes as he sets you at ease once again. 

Who are you kidding? You’ve made your decision.

 

   



End file.
